


In which Tarvek wants to study

by Overlord_Bethany



Series: Poison in Paris [8]
Category: Girl Genius (Webcomic)
Genre: Gen, Paris hijinks, Pre-Canon, there's a British history joke in here somewhere
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-05
Updated: 2018-04-05
Packaged: 2019-04-18 17:43:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14218362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Overlord_Bethany/pseuds/Overlord_Bethany
Summary: This probably ends badly for him.





	In which Tarvek wants to study

Tarvek enjoyed the nearly unlimited resources of the Incorruptible Library, but if pressed, he would admit he liked the privacy more. He could engage a reading room, or even occupy a corner of one of the larger spaces, confident that none of his family would dare interrupt him here. The Librarians had specific and immutable rules regarding activities that might endanger their collection, so assassination was right out. Spying, sure, but no murder attempts would be made. Not by anyone with any sense, anyhow. 

Today he would call his research topic anything but relaxing. He sat at one of the long tables, his notes spread around him, cross referencing an old Corbettite text called  _Ignoble Chemistrie_  with six issues of  _Le Journal Parisien des Toxines Curieuses_. His most recent Smoke Knight had dissolved most unpleasantly, and he wanted to know why. 

The hours slipped by unnoticed, and his pile of notes grew, soon encompassing three notebooks and a stack of pages torn from each, to suffer rearranging later. Still, every time the door opened, Tarvek glanced up. The Librarians ignored him, of course, but he supposed it inevitable when classmates of his appeared. 

Warwick slouched in, one hand in an apparently oversized pocket, a stack of books clutched to his chest. At his heels came Wooster, a rare sight without one of Colette’s usual band of adventurers. Especially Gil, Tarvek conceded with a faint twist of his lips. He moved  _Ignoble Chemistrie_  on top of his notes. 

Warwick noticed, and laughed at him. “Come now, Sturmvoraus,” he said, loping over to give Tarvek a nudge with his pocket-side elbow. “You don’t expect I could read whatever cipher you’re writing in today, do you?”

Tarvek gave him a narrow-eyed stare. “Well, you  _are_  president of the Cryptography Club.” He gestured to the seat opposite him, an invitation which Warwick accepted without hesitation. 

“Sure, because I can organize people. I can read  _your_  notes about as well as  _you_  can speak Breton.”

Well enough to swear at people, and possibly purchase a loaf of bread. Tarvek almost wrinkled his nose at the thought, but adjusted his glasses to hide it. Did Warwick speak Breton? That only deepened the mystery surrounding his disheveled classmate. He had traced the man’s origins as far as Calais, but no mention of him existed before he had turned up there. His name was British, an old title lost to modern times, but he spoke only passable English, and it seemed no one in England had ever heard of him. 

Wooster dropped into the seat beside Warwick and flipped open a notebook. Tarvek suppressed a grimace. He would learn nothing about Warwick with Wooster sitting right there. 

Or perhaps…

“It’s always a pleasure to study with friends.” Tarvek smiled at Warwick, but he stole a glance at the four books the man had placed on the tabletop.  _Changelings and Other Aberrations. On Deformitie. Permutation Physic: an incomplete study._  And, of all things, a book about van Rijn. Tarvek reached for the volume he very nearly had memorized. “May I?”

Wooster pulled the book out of his reach, opened it, and started to copy the publication details into his notebook. Warwick gave him a thin smile. “Oh, are  _you_  volunteering your help now? I suppose it’s to be another competition between idiots.”

“You sound like Colette,” Wooster muttered, still writing. 

Tarvek tried to sound blandly curious. “Oh? What’s this that Holzfäller is helping you with?” Wooster’s presence made sense now: he was taking notes for Gil, whose Library card had been revoked, rather spectacularly if one believed the rumors. 

Tarvek found it worrying that Gil could intrude without even being present. 

Warwick gave a nervous chuckle. “I think if any more people help me with this project, Professor Wollstonecraft will add me to her collection.”

Nobody wanted that. 

Wooster finished copying information out of the book, and Warwick reached over to take it from him. At his touch, the book fell open as to a marked page. Tarvek reacted before he realized he’d heard the faint noise of a spring mechanism. He swatted the book away, but not before the trap launched a fine blue mist into the air. 

Covering his nose and mouth with the collar of his coat, Wooster leapt after the book. Warwick slumped in his chair, dazed and struggling for breath. Great. So much for a quiet research session. 

Taking a vial from his pocket, Tarvek emptied its contents onto his handkerchief. He vaulted across the table, his momentum carrying Warwick to the floor, chair and all. At the moment of impact, he pressed his soaked handkerchief to Warwick’s face, letting him gasp the antidote into his lungs. 

“Breathe,” he commanded. Warwick stared up at him, eyes watering from the effort, from the sting of the antidote, but he sputtered, and he inhaled a second time, then a third. When Warwick began to flush a bit about the ears, Tarvek knew he would live. 

Dropping the handkerchief, Tarvek rummaged in his pockets. He produced two more vials, and he combined their contents. Forcing Warwick’s mouth open, Tarvek poured the liquid down his throat. “You’ll be fine,” he grumbled, shrugging out of his coat as he continued. “A little shocky, maybe. Here.” He wrapped his classmate in his coat and eased him into a seated position. “You should breathe better upright.” Across the room, Wooster was handing the contaminated book to one of the Junior Archivists. They both looked tremendously displeased. 

Warwick wheezed, and it took Tarvek a moment to realize he attempted to speak. “You're…”

“You just burned your larynx. Now probably isn’t the best time for a conversation.”

“…Calm.” Warwick gave him his best attempt at a defiant stare. Tarvek shook his head. 

“You’ll do permanent damage to your voice,” he chided, but he also gave his classmate an answer. “That trap was meant for me.”

“Y'don't… know that.” Warwick managed words a little better now, though he sounded like he had gargled gravel and razor blades. When Tarvek gave him a skeptical look, he shrugged one shoulder. “Her Undying Majesty would want me dead.”

Tarvek stared at him, the horror of his words slowly sinking in. “You’re not… the  _Earl_  of Warwick?” he hissed through his teeth, glancing around to make certain Wooster remained out of earshot. Warwick gave a wheezing laugh. 

“Don’t be ridiculous. That title hasn’t been used in generations.”

“Neither has Storm King,” Tarvek grumbled, a little too loudly. Warwick gave him a sharp look. Oh, but they were a pair. King and Kingmaker. 

Oh.

Tarvek sucked a breath through his teeth. “That’s why you’re studying van Rijn!”

Warwick shook his head harder than he should have. “The Yorks were a terrible idea,” he rasped. “Old man never should have built them.”

Tarvek glanced around at the Archivists and Librarians drifting in and out of the stacks. Wooster had disappeared. Suddenly he felt overly exposed. “Come on,” he said, easing an arm under Warwick’s shoulder. “Let’s get you home to rest.”

It was probably too soon to move him, but Warwick obliged, teetering to his feet. Tarvek leaned over to grab their notes before the two of them wobbled toward the exit. Librarians swarmed them, demanding details, wanting to know who had tampered with their precious books. Tarvek waved them away, promising a full report later. He would never be able to examine the mechanism. Wooster had taken it. 

They passed the lift ride in silence but for the rattling of Warwick’s breathing, taking the most direct exit to the University. Tarvek considered them fortunate that the Librarians encouraged the students—most of them—to come and go at all hours. In the school labs, he could collect more supplies to speed Warwick’s recovery. The lift doors opened, and Warwick stumbled forward. Tarvek stood frozen, staring. 

Wooster, it seemed, had run off to fetch Gil. 

Gil who had lost his shirt somewhere. 

Tarvek closed his eyes against the sight, but his mind helpfully maintained the image of powerful muscles beneath smooth skin. His heart rate spiked, and the blood pounded in his ears. He swallowed twice before he managed to speak. “ _What_  are you doing here?”

It helped that Gil ignored him, opting instead to make a monumental fuss over Warwick. The four of them blundered off to the school labs, Tarvek numbly giving a list of supplies to Wooster, who did well at hiding his suspicion. 

“Holzfäller…” Warwick wheezed. “Where is your shirt?”

Yes, Gil, where is your shirt? Tarvek saw Warwick leaning on Gil, and tried not to feel the sharp, hot jealousy cutting into his heart. To feel that skin warm beneath his palm, as Warwick did…

“These two girls stole it,” Gil said, rubbing an awkward hand through his hair. “I don’t know where they went.”

Tarvek’s jealousy focused, cutting deeper, burning hotter. “You useless libertine,” he snapped. 

“Not my fault! And not too useless, I hope. Here, up on the slab with you.” This last Gil directed at Warwick, boosting him up with ease. He lifted Warwick’s arms and prodded at his sides. “How are the things? The stuff? Everything still where it belongs?”

Warwick gave a wheezing laugh at Gil’s concern. “I inhaled an aerosolized toxin. I promise it hasn’t damaged our work.”

“You look a little ill yourself,” Wooster muttered to Tarvek. “Did you inhale any of that stuff?”

Tarvek tried to swallow the dryness in his mouth. “Ah, no. I’m just…” Dying of envy at the easy familiarity between Gil and Warwick. “Concerned for a friend.”

Wooster arched a brow, but helped him gather his supplies. Tarvek set up a distillation array while Gil subjected Warwick to a more thorough examination. He tried not to think about it. Fine. Gil could just be hopelessly oblivious. He could put his hands all over Warwick and let strange girls run off with his clothes. Idiot. 

By the time Tarvek had produced an inhalant to speed Warwick’s recovery, Gil had finished with him. Good. Tarvek glared at Gil, then offered a hand to help Warwick down. “Come on. You’ll need to rest for a few hours before you get back to studying and trying to read my notes.”

Warwick gave a weak smile, which he also turned on Gil. “You’re both welcome in Calais any time.”

Only Tarvek knew why he failed to extend the invitation to Wooster. 

Gil chuckled. “Not at the same time, I hope.”

“Of course. I have a surprisingly high tolerance for your nonsense.”

But not a high poison tolerance. Tarvek sighed. When they had walked Warwick to his room, he would return to his own research. 

It would be a long night.


End file.
